This letter, as I have said, was sent through all right, whether it was because they did not read it or because they failed to discover the satire—perhaps it should like Nasby’s have been labelled a joke—I never knew. The next was written in the same vein, after I had escaped and been recaptured. Both had been published in the daily papers here, at the time, but the last one I have thus far failed to find. It was written after my escape and recapture, and detailed how, rather than risk the scene that would be sure to ensue, should I announce my intention of departing to my friend, the Confederate Colonel, and fearing I might be overcome by such an affecting leavetaking, that I concluded to start at three o’clock in the morning, while he was still sleeping, and thus spare not only him, but myself, an interview that would certainly be embarrassing to one or both of us.
But that, after I had traveled three hundred miles, his couriers overtook me, and were so urgent in their appeals for me to return, that I could not deny them, and had concluded to stay and see a little more of this beautiful Southern country before my return. But just as soon as I could persuade my friends to consent to my departure, I should surely return, and would try and make my friends in the North a good long visit, at least, before making another journey.
My letters were generally received by my friends in due time, but although they were promptly answered I never received a line to tell me whether my wife, who left for Newbern on the night of the first day’s fight, had got home or not, and when I was finally released, after nearly a year’s confinement, I did not know whether she was living or dead until I telegraphed from Annapolis and received an answer. We resorted to all sorts of devices to get letters through to our friends in the North, that contained matter that we were aware the Confederate authorities would not permit. I once wrote a short note in ink on a page of foolscap, and then filled up the sheet with a long letter, written with soda, which would be invisible until heated. My short note was an acrostic, and taking the first word of each line and reading it down formed this sentence: “I write with soda.”
But this letter never reached its destination. The reb authorities soon got onto these dodges, and were very careful in their examination of all correspondence of prisoners, and everything that looked at all suspicious was destroyed.
I only received one letter while I was in prison, and that was from Col. James W. Savage, of my regiment, which, for brevity and news, I think I never saw equalled. I have the letter yet, soiled, faded and worn, but quote it entire:
HEADQUARTERS 12TH N. Y. VOL. CAVALRY,
Camp Palmer, July 31st, 1864.
Dear Cooper:—
Russell is in a Northern hospital, nearly well; Maj. Clarkson is assistant inspector; Rocha temporarily in command of “I;” Ellison and Mahon have resigned; Maj. Gasper also, though his resignation has not been accepted. We have lost a few men in skirmishes since you were taken. Prewster and Rice, of D, and June, of G, are dead. You and Hock are constantly remembered by us all.
Signed, J. W. Savage, Col. 12th N. Y. V. Cavalry.
My regards. J. A. Judson, Capt. and A. A. Gen’l.